I got to spend some time with Cy Twombly at The Tate (left) and at the MOMA. The first is text he wrote from the last line of Rilke’s Duino Elegies on a card at the base of one of his untitled sculptures in 1987, and the second is his painting “Academy” from 1955. As I get older, I’m watching my own handwriting become wild and more beautiful, a little like this, and I like not being able to read it after I’m done with it. That would maybe miss the point.
My boy, Joseph Mains, playing bass for Kilnemia in 2001. At 1:52, he’s saying what’s up to you and me, now that we’re in the future.
On Wednesday mornings, Pasqual, the plumber at the Chateau de Monthelon, in rural Burgundy, where I am on writing residency, plays the piano beautifully in one of the largest rooms of the chateau. He doesn’t mind that I sit in the room to write while he plays. This is a few minutes of piano that I recorded. I call it Pasqual the Plumber’s Lament. I’m sure he calls it something different.
I’ve recently drawn portraits of some of my favorite artists: Samuel Beckett, Etel Adnan, Joyce Mansour, and Octavio Paz. If you want me to draw your favorite artist for you, just ask me.
My favorite thing about horizons is they split the world into two, and I am not in either half.
Everywhere we walk, there is a horizon. Even in the barn door. We walked to the edge of the sea. There were bathers getting out of the water. Maybe 12 of them. This is what it sounded like. I walk through the little roads in the fields, little Renaults pass within a foot of my life without slowing down. Today’s french lesson included I’m sorry, which is désolé.